


Daniel

by zuzeca



Category: Pet Shop of Horrors, Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Gen, Hallucinations, Haunting, M/M, Present Tense, Watchmen Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's in a name?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daniel

**Author's Note:**

> One of a series of drabbles and short fics written many years ago on the Watchmen kinkmeme for [this prompt](http://spam-monster.livejournal.com/2617.html?thread=5075513#t5075513) and never de-anoned. Enjoy.

It is the combination of a distracting ornithological magazine and a powerful craving for authentic lo mein that leads Sam Hollis to this place, cornered on a brocade sofa by a Chinese man in a flowered dress and sipping tea sweet enough to rot his teeth from his head.

“So,” says the man, with a flirtatious smile that nearly makes Sam choke on his tea, “what kind of pet were you looking for?”

He opens his mouth to say no, sorry, not looking for a pet. What comes out is, “Well, I really like birds.”

“Perfect!” the man claps his hands and rises, sweeping the cup from Sam’s nerveless hands and tugging him towards the ornate doors at the back of the shop. They open to reveal an endless, winding hall, which makes the logical part of Sam’s mind wail that the building shouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , be large enough to contain a store this large, and the man yanks him through. 

The scent of incense is suffocating, and the darkness blinds him. He flails for a moment as his eyes adjust, and he becomes aware of them. 

Feathers rustle and bright eyes regard him from various perches, but these are _humans_. Humans preening colorful wings and murmuring in low tones. The cooing of pigeons and the soft chirps of finches spill from human lips. Sam gapes and rubs his eyes.

“Take your pick,” D says, the “birds” crowding around him as he moves through the colorful flock. His smile reminds Sam of a large cat. “We have many species here, from your basic canaries and cockatiels,” his lacquered nails comb bright feathers, provoking satisfied noises from a friendly woman in a yellow dress, “to species which just barely pass your import laws.”

Sam takes a breath, ready to tear into this lunatic, this _human trafficker_ when the flock parts in a swirl of feathers and the words die in his throat.

His wings are symmetrically patterned in black and white, ironically appropriate, but it is the hair that Sam notices first, red as blood, scruffy, and topping a freckled face with eerie blank eyes.

“Rorschach!” 

He’s at the other man’s side in an instant, his own questions an incoherent babble in his ears, asking where, why, _how_ , but then Rorschach is hopping back, wings flaring in startled response to his erratic movements and D inserts himself between them with smooth grace.

“You’re mistaken,” he says, one hand dropping to pet Rorschach’s head. The other man avoids him, his expression shifting from blank to slightly annoyed for a fraction of a second. “This is an Australian Magpie, and I’m afraid he is unsuitable.”

“Why is that?”

“He has a bit of a temper,” says D, jerking his hand out of reach as Rorschach snaps at it. “And he has resisted all attempts to train him to talk.”

“Daniel,” croaks Rorschach. 

Sam jerks slightly. 

“I’m afraid that’s the only word he says,” D’s tone is airy, but Sam finds himself brushing past him, crouching down in front of Rorschach. He extends a hand.

Blue eyes lock with brown.

“Daniel,” the voice is low and hoarse.

Sam reaches back, withdrawing his wallet from a back pocket.

“How much?” he asks, and D smiles.

 

“A bird?” says Sandra, eying the new addition doubtfully. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“It’ll be fine,” he assures her. “He doesn’t take much care, and magpies will eat almost anything.”

“I suppose,” she says. “What’s his name anyway?”

“Walter,” the word springs to his lips before he can stop it. The incense from that infernal shop must not have worn off.

Sandra flinches slightly.

“That’s a nice name,” she turns, brushing back blonde hair which looks flat and brassy in the lamplight, as she moves towards the kitchen. “I’ll see about dinner.”

He can’t stop a fond smile at the sneaky way she snags a take-out menu on her way there.

“Daniel,” Walter croaks.

Sam sighs, glancing over at the winged man perched on his sofa. “You’re going to have to stop that.”

“Daniel,” Sam is sure he’s imagining the mulish expression on Walter’s face.

For a few weeks nothing changes. Walter integrates seamlessly into their lives, to the point they sometimes forget he’s there. He’s well behaved and surprisingly clean; a perfectly ordinary bird.

Sam notices that he only speaks when Sandra isn’t around.

Sandra’s work schedule changes unexpectedly. Her boss puts her on the night shift and Sam is left alone, tossing and turning in their bed, which has gone from feeling too small to huge and empty.

Then the dreams start.

_He’s showering, but the warm, soothing liquid spilling from the faucet isn’t water. It’s ink. The black droplets are splashing against the white tiles of the shower, dripping and pooling into abstract shapes._

_The ceiling is gone and Walter swoops down through the rain of ink, which stains his white wings. He’s fixated by the contrast._

_Walter’s wings arch upwards._

_The drops on his skin begin to stretch and grow, enveloping him. He squirms in panic, reaching out towards Walter in entreaty._

_“Rorschach!”_

_“Daniel.”_

_“Please, help me!”_

_“Daniel.”_

_Then ink is in his mouth, nose, filling his ears and he can’t see, breathe-_

_“Dan—”_

Sam comes awake with a gasp.

Walter is perched on the edge of the bed, his silhouette outlined against the grey dawn light.

“Daniel,” he says.

“Shut up,” says Sam, rolling over and pulling the sheets over his head.

The white muslin is cheap and easy to find, the black Kevlar fabric less so. Quilting and soaking the cotton fabric in salt water produces surprisingly tough armor. He digs his old goggles and the grappling gun from their grave at the back of the closet and constructs a new mask. The beak is longer, the costume lighter and more mobile and short wings between his wrists and body replace the cape. He works long into the night, filling the sleepless hours, as Walter perches on the sofa, watching.

He hides the costume from the light of day and doesn’t say anything to Sandra. 

It’s a cool fall evening when he puts on the suit for the first time. It fits him like a second skin. 

He’s slipping from his window under cover of dark, but the flutter of wings stops him for a moment. 

Walter is perched on the sill, wings pulled close as though in preparation for a dive.

“Daniel,” he says, and the monotonous voice sounds hesitant.

Daniel smiles and extends his hand.

“Rorschach.” 

 

They’re calling him “Shrike”, for his habit of leaving criminals dangling from high places, alive but shaken, and for the bird familiar that the thieves and pimps say fights like a demon.

“What is this?” Sandra snaps, throwing the paper down on the kitchen table.

He looks up from feeding Walter bits of ground meat, “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t treat me like an idiot!” her voice is low, but full of fire, fire he hasn’t seen in her in ages. “We agreed, if this is going to happen, then it’s together or not at all. And then I find you’ve been going behind my back! What were you thinking, going out there alone? Even after—” she pauses a moment and swallows hard, “even now it’s too dangerous to be by yourself!”

“I’m not alone,” he replies. 

“Walter’s a bird! He’s no substitute for a real partner!”

“That’s not true!” the volume of his voice shocks them both. “He’s more than that. He’s my partner.”

“He’s not Rorschach!”

“You can’t see it!” he’s risen from the table and she seems surprised at his challenge. “You can’t see him because you don’t _want_ to see!”

She steps back, “You’re crazy.”

“Well at least I still know who I am!”

She jerks as though he’s slapped her. Off balance, she tries to compromise, “Listen, I know that you feel guilty, but Sam-”

“Don’t call me that!”

She freezes, eyes wide.

“My name is Daniel.”

She slams the door on her way out.

He doesn’t feel guilt. Guilt will come later, when he’s sitting on the edge of a roof, Walter perched beside him, looking out over the carpet of glowing jewels that makes up the city.

“I suppose I should apologize,” he says, leaning over to scratch Walter’s head. Walter coos in response, leaning into his touch. “That’s the thing with women; it never works if you’re not willing to compromise.”

“Daniel,” Walter murmurs.

He chuckles to himself. “That was always the difference between us, wasn’t it?”

Muffled shouts from a nearby alley draw his attention and he drops from the roof, Walter at his side.

It’s a routine mugging and the little punk goes down under his fists like a sack of bricks. He turns to help the woman up off the ground, but then, a flash of movement and stupid _stupid_ , forgot to check for another guy, and the man has a gun, batting Walter away and he’s completely exposed, and he shoves the woman away from him.

The gun goes off.

Feathers explode before his vision and red splatters across the front of his costume.

Instinct tells him to go after the man, but all he can see is Walter, crumpling to the ground.

The gun goes off again.

He touches his side and his fingers come away wet. Lucky shot, he thinks, at the joint of the armor, his mind bizarrely logical in spite of the agony crawling up his spine. His vision is whiting out and his knees give beneath him.

His eyes close, but he feels at peace.

The police will find them in the morning, the dawn light revealing a middle-aged man in a bird costume, a small black and white bird tucked beside him.


End file.
